


Ends and Beginnings

by tirsynni



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon What Canon?, F/M, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 19:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: Draco Malfoy, the Prat Who Refused to Die, a wedding, and too little firewhiskey.How Draco got there, he had no clue. Where it was going to lead, he had no idea.





	Ends and Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> A commission fic by someone who desired fluffy Drarry. To meet the fluffy quota, good chunks of canon were ignored.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

“...white isn’t your color.”

“What.”

“White isn’t --”

“I  _ heard _ you, Potter, and white is  _ absolutely _ my color!”

“ _ Boys. _ ”

At Hermione’s sharp tone, both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy quieted. With one last side-eye at each other, they turned to Hermione. Potter managed a bright smile which somehow always looked vaguely sardonic. Draco ran his hands down his  _ silver _ , not white, robes and managed a far more soothing smile. Based on Hermione’s raised eyebrow, neither pleased her.

If someone told Draco ten years ago that he would be standing here, being sized for robes alongside Hermione Granger and the Prat-Who-Refused-to-Die, he would have laughed and then hexed the idiot. Being told that he would be Granger’s Man of Honor?

Actually, Draco still had no idea how that happened. 

At least he had the pleasure of watching Madam Malkin scowl at Potter for moving when she tried to size him. Potter smiled at her -- that odd, quirky smile which drove Draco mad -- and stood still for less than thirty seconds before turning back to Hermione. Draco thought he heard a snarl. “This is us being friendly, Hermione,” he said. Somehow, he managed to sound sincere. “If we were nice, you would be checking us both for curses.”

Hermione frowned at him, reminding Draco disturbingly of Professor McGonagall. Her own robes had been done two weeks ago. It didn’t take magic to figure out why she was there: to make sure Potter actually finished with his robe sizing. “You could try to be polite.” Then she sighed and shook her head. “Never mind. If you were polite, then I really would be testng you for curses.”

Potter beamed. Madam Malkin looked moments away from smacking him with her wand. 

Draco’s own appointment was scheduled for 2:00, but he arrived early, hoping to get done early. There were still...issues...associated with the Malfoy name, which required much work to address. With his parents still in seclusion in France, the weight of it fell on him.

Although… Draco crossed his arms and studied Potter, who wiggled when the tape brushed his hip. Many people, including himself, expected Potter to go the Auror route, but while Draco and both of Potter’s friends went to the Ministry, Potter stayed at Hogwarts. Stepping into the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor position worked well for Potter. He was still short, would always be short, but Potter’s current state of undress showed off his fitness. At the rate Potter was going, Draco’s appointment would be late, but he appreciated the show.

Potter wiggled again. Then he looked at Draco and raised an eyebrow. At least, it looked like he tried to raise an eyebrow. “Like the view, Malfoy?”

Draco smiled sweetly. “Love it.”

Potter didn’t miss a beat. He stretched, deliberately, and Draco barely heard Madam Malkin’s growl over the sudden thudding of his heart.  _ Very _ fit. This wiggle was very deliberate. “Never know when you have to run for your life. Good to stay in shape.”

“...right,” Draco agreed faintly.

Hermione scoffed, breaking the mood. Draco hated her a little right then. “Well, if you are going to stay here, Draco, then I need to get back to the office.” Hermione eyed him, and that hatred turned into wariness. “I trust you can babysit Harry.”

“Hey!”

“And make sure he doesn’t cause too many problems,” Hermione continued smoothly. She sighed and shook her head. “I’m going to have to do this next week with Ron, I know.”

Her face softened. Draco turned back to the smooth line of Potter’s bare back. Some small scars he would love to know more about and lovely lean muscle. Far better than seeing  _ that _ expression on Hermione’s face. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t run away.  _ Someone _ has to make sure that Potter looks presentable.”

“ _ Hey! _ ”

Hermione sighed and left. Draco’s eyes trailed downward. Purely to judge Potter’s taste in boxers. Needed new ones, truly.

Perhaps that was the beginning of the end then. Or maybe five years ago. Ten? Almost two decades? Who knew?

Following the War, things were tense for everyone. Potter killed Voldemort. How, exactly, possibly only Potter knew. All involved held their silence. Draco and his parents -- most of those connected with Slytherin -- were on trial, made all the more chaotic by the broken Ministry trying to judge them. Draco assured himself then that at least he didn’t have to fear an eternity of Dementors.

Then Potter and his allies stepped up. They swept through the Wizarding World like a storm. According to some, they remade it in a new, strange image. Another fear took Draco then: that there would be no room for him in the new Wizarding World.

Potter changed things again. Before everyone’s unblinking eyes, he gave Draco back his wand and thanked him for his help. 

Five years later, Draco found himself working alongside Granger (“Oh, enough of that, call me Hermione”) and now he found himself invited as a Hermione’s Man of Honor in her wedding to the Weasel. His mother told him that these connections were good things. 

Later, sitting with Potter going over  _ flowers _ , Draco began to doubt.

“Flowers,” Draco repeated, voice flat. “You cannot convince me that Hermione is interested in  _ flowers _ .”

Sitting across Draco in Draco’s office, still wearing his professor robes, Potter grunted and flipped through the magazine on his lap. A small pile sat on Draco’s desk, messing up his careful pile of papers. Potter messed up more papers when he swung his dirty boots on Draco’s desk, but Draco took care of that with a quick hex.

Right then, Potter didn’t look like the Man-Who-Killed-the-Dark-Lord. He didn’t even look like the professor who broke the DADA curse. He looked like an annoying bloke who didn’t care that he just disrupted Draco’s evening over  _ flowers _ , and he also looked like someone who hadn’t brushed his curly hair before tossing it in a ponytail. Draco’s fingers itched, to fix his desk and Potter’s hair both.

“She’s not,” Potter admitted. “Not really.” He flipped a page and scowled. “But  _ Molly _ is, and Hermione wants to keep Molly from taking over the wedding.”

“So why not let the Weasel handle it?” Draco demanded. He picked up one magazine and blinked. Huh. He didn’t know that Longbottom was involved in flowers.

“Because he’s a coward and he’s hiding,” Potter said, disgruntled. He flipped another page and wrinkled his nose. Draco refused to think that was cute. “He claimed he has an investigation he can’t leave.”

“And Hermione bought that?”

“Nope.”

Draco coughed to hide his laugh. When he saw Potter’s mouth quirk into a smile, he relented and grabbed the magazine with Longbottom’s article in it. Not because he was interested in the article, but because it just happened to be on top. “And she let him get away with it?”

Potter barked a laugh. He threw his magazine to the side and grabbed another off the pile. “Of course not. She’s made sure that he is going to document every bit of the investigation. Every. Bit.”

Draco shook his head. Wankers. All of them. “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”

“Nope!” Potter admitted cheerfully.

Draco sighed. “Just. Sit there and look pretty. I’ll figure out the flowers.”

He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Potter immediately handed over the magazine and fluttered his eyelashes at Draco. They were lovely and long and framed those bright green eyes far too well, even with those ugly glasses in place. “You think I’m pretty, Malfoy?”

One curse later found Potter’s chair broken and Potter sprawled on the floor, wheezing with laughter. Draco huffed and hid his face behind the magazine. Damn his fine complexion.

Also, Longbottom’s article proved pretty interesting.

Five years ago, Draco never would have expected any of this, either. Potter had been easy enough to avoid. Just like Draco’s parents secluded themselves in France, Potter hid from his fame at Hogwarts. Draco and Weasley silently agreed to avoiding each other. The War had drained all of them of their need for drama, everyone in their generation exhausted and only desiring a brighter future. For many, that involved separating themselves and licking their wounds.

Not Hermione Granger. 

She swept into Draco’s office at the Ministry, slammed a report in front of him, and demanded to know if he was still as good with potions as he had been at Hogwarts. Insulted, of course Draco told her that he was even  _ better _ . 

Maybe  _ that _ moment was the beginning of the end.

Two weeks before the wedding, Draco found himself with Potter again, this time in a Hogsmeade booth. Potter offered his office but Draco refused, the memories in Hogwarts still too strong. Hogsmeade and a careless spell from Potter hiding them from view proved a good compromise. 

“So we have the place, the flowers, the music… What are we missing?” Draco demanded. 

Potter sipped his butterbeer. He had to go back to Hogwarts after this and be available for his students. Draco, having no such responsibility, was drinking something much stronger.

Potter’s wild curls were only semi-tamed by another ponytail, his professor robes loose and unflattering and not even hinting at the toned body Draco knew was under them. He looked tired but still more relaxed than he had been in their final days of school. Of course, no one had been relaxed in their final days of school. How far they had come. Still, Draco wished he had won the argument that day at Madam Malkin’s, but at least his wedding robes would look good on him.

“Food.” Potter stared longingly at Draco’s drink. 

“We have food,” Draco argued. “We had that set up weeks ago.”

“Had food. Hermione found out that they were using house elf labor.”

After a beat, Draco swigged his drink, then shoved the remainder to Potter. Potter toasted him before tossing it back. 

“Two weeks before the wedding of two of the Battle of Hogwarts’ heroes and no vendor,” Draco said. 

Potter slid the glass back to him. “Yep.”

Draco stared at the amber liquid shimmering at the bottom of the glass. Just a drop or two left. He remembered sitting in another bar five years ago, but then it was Hermione sitting across from him. She was the first non-Slytherin to informally speak with him following the War. Even with Potter’s clearly standing up for him, the Malfoy name was still questionable, to say the least.

They met first while Hermione grilled over his potions knowledge. There were suspicions of someone poisoning informants. It crossed several departments, including Hermione’s own. He thought the Weasel would be angry. Hermione shrugged. Weasley knew. He didn’t care. She never explained why. 

That started the regular meetings, with Hermione’s line of questioning turning to Pureblood lines and traditions. The Weasley family had removed themselves to the point that questioning them was all but pointless. 

_ “Why do you want all of this?” Draco asked, two months’ into their meetings. _

_ Hermione shook her head at him. “I’ll be Minister one day, and I’m going to need to know these things.” _

That might have been the end, actually.

“I might know some companies which can help,” Draco said. He tapped the table twice, and Potter obligingly loosened the spell enough for him to wave to Madam Rosmerta for another drink. She waved back. Confirmed. “I don’t know if they will still work with a Malfoy, though.”

Potter sighed and let his head thud to the table. Draco took the moment to raise his hand again.  _ Two _ drinks. Madam Rosmerta grinned at him. Draco scoffed silently and turned back to Potter. Potter didn’t move or look up. 

There had been scars on Potter’s back but none on his neck. It was long and smooth and slightly damp, with black curls clinging to it. Draco’s hands itched. Even in its ponytail, Potter’s hair was a tousled mess. 

“If your name won’t work,” Potter sighed, voice muffled, “use mine. I reckon that’ll do it.”

Draco wanted to pet those messy curls, try to straighten them out. Madam Rosmerta arrived with their drinks before he could. 

Draco told himself he was grateful.

It took six months of drinks with Hermione before Potter joined them. Draco expected suspicion, dark looks, snide comments. Instead, Potter joked about how he understood how so many of his DADA professors were murderers or crazy. Hermione scolded him and then scolded him again when he threw his boots on the chair across from him. 

Weasley wasn’t so friendly, but Hermione only shrugged off his questions about Potter.  _ “People have been trying to kill him since he was an infant. It changed his standards.” _

Draco coughed and wrapped his hands around his pint to keep himself from touching those damned curls. “I’ll follow up on some leads and Floo you tomorrow.”

Sighing, Potter sat up straight. He grabbed his drink and took a gulp without flinching. “Also, the twins are planning on throwing Ron a bachelor’s party. You’re invited.”

“What.”

(It took another two years after that night with Hermione and Potter for Draco to invite Potter for drinks. Just the two of them. To his shock, Potter accepted. The first night was filled with extensive but cheery insults which had everyone around them scooting their chairs away.)

With the cunning of a Slytherin and the wisdom gained since he left Hogwarts, Draco escaped the bachelor’s party. He claimed the need for privacy to translate an manuscript. What he didn’t say was that it was an old potions’ manuscript his parents had owled him from France. An apology, he believed, but refused to think too hard on it. 

Still, only a fool would refuse such a gift. With Hermione’s wedding only two days away, Draco hid himself away to translate it. The book came with two notes, one from each parent, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to deal with them now. He would after the drama of the wedding was over.

Focused on the manuscript, it took several minutes before Draco realized there was someone knocking at his door. He considered ignoring it for five seconds before wedding fears coaxed him up and on his feet. 

In hindsight, he should have expected Potter. Maybe not drunk, maybe not with a peeved owl on his shoulder, but he should have expected Potter.

Leaning against the door, glasses crooked on his nose, Potter beamed at Draco. The owl -- a white, familiar looking beauty -- hooted once, more disgruntled than Draco knew an owl could sound, and took off into the night. Potter turned to wave at her and almost fell. “ ‘night, Hedwig!”

Another disgruntled hoot answered.

It took several tries for Draco to find his voice. Was that  _ glitter _ in Potter’s hair? “What are you doing here, Potter?”

Potter almost fell  _ again _ turning back to Draco. This time, Draco had to catch the prat. Potter didn’t seem to notice. “Someone from Marise’s Magical Menagerie of Plants and Beasts dropped in on the party,” he said, his voice maniacally cheerful. “There was a Venomous Tentacula incident. They won’t have any plants in time for the wedding.”

This time, Draco let Potter fall, too busy cursing to catch him.

While Potter dozed on the couch (that was certainly glitter, but for the life of him, Draco couldn’t figure out what the glowing green substance on his pants were or why there was makeup on only one eye), Draco owled letters and contacted others via Floo. All the while, he pointedly looked away from Potter’s sprawled body. Potter’s robes were tangled around his legs and for some reason, Potter was shirtless. Why was Potter shirtless? He didn’t know. How was Potter keeping in such good shape? Draco tried not to think about it.

He also tried not to think about why Potter’s knuckles were bruised. Apparently, his temper hadn’t improved over the years, and the prat  _ still _ couldn’t remember that he was a wizard. What happened at the bachelor party, exactly?

By the time Potter woke up, groaning and grabbing his head, another florist was found and Draco learned exactly how many cleaning spells were necessary to clean glitter out of furniture. He was in the middle of writing a note to himself to research if glitter began life as a foul curse when Potter, still groaning, fell off the couch with a thump.

“Hangover potion to your left,” Draco said, not looking up.

Potter only moaned.

Draco considered leaving him to suffer, but they only had twenty-four hours before the wedding. He needed Potter clear-headed and at least somewhat coherent.  

Then Potter opened his eyes and squinted at him. “Didn’t you have green hair last night?”

Draco quit.

The day of the wedding dawned bright, golden, and with Draco’s head throbbing no matter how much potion he drank. He cheered himself up with the knowledge that Potter had to deal with the Weasel all morning, who looked green and panicked in the quick look Draco had of him. Potter shot Draco a harried look before he pushed Weasley into a tent, and Draco could only beam back. Hermione was much easier to deal with.

Well, somewhat easier.

“And everything with the flowers were handled?” Hermione demanded, turning her head to look at Draco. Ginny Weasley stood beside her, hand twitching over her wand like she wanted to hex Hermione into standing still. Luna Lovegood, with a serenity Draco found eerie, just calmly spelled some white flowers into Hermione’s wild hair. 

So far, Hermione had grilled Draco about the food, Potter’s robes, efforts taken to keep reporters away (something Draco left Potter to address, which he did with disturbing glee), backup plans in case rain happened despite all signs that it was supposed to be sunny all week, among other things. To Draco’s distaste, Hermione (and allegedly Weasley) decided to hold the wedding outside the Weasley home. That added the stressor of Molly Weasley trying to step in multiple times, but Draco left Potter to handle that, too (which he did with far less glee). 

“Everything is fine,” Draco repeated. He tried to sound sincere instead of just irritated. This was further complicated by the fact that he could barely look directly at Hermione. For one, she looked  _ pretty _ , which was odd on multiple levels. Hermione Granger was rarely  _ pretty _ . She was intimidating, She was sharp. Pretty was for… He let his eye roam. Not a single woman in this room.

Watching Hermione bite her lip and fuss over her dress, Draco broke. “I’ll just doublecheck everything,” he said, scrambling to his feet. He ignored the female Weasley’s look of scorn. 

Hermione didn’t even look at him. “Don’t forget, 10:00am, front hall.”

She sounded like her regular Ministry self, so Draco bit back the comment that he was the one who  _ scheduled _ when and where they met. “Of course,” he said smoothly, then darted out of the door.

Close enough to a door, anyway. While the wedding was taking place on the Weasley property, Hermione was strangely tense about going into the Weasley home to prepare. Draco guessed it had something to do with her concerns about Molly Weasley, but he would prefer to face Voldemort again before he touched that issue. Even Potter, one of the craziest and most reckless people Draco knew, refused to get involved. Instead, there was a mess of tents between the Weasley home and the area where the wedding would take place. 

Speak of the warlock. Two tents away, Potter leaned against another door, tipping what looked like a flask to his mouth. He pulled it away and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, an unattractive motion which somehow the bastard made look attractive. Draco grimaced and pulled out his wand. When the cleaning spell cleaned Potter’s  _ brand-new robe _ , Potter blinked and met Draco’s eyes. While Draco’s brain quit, Potter grinned ruefully at him and extended the flask in silent invitation.

At Draco’s insistence, instead of regular black robes or -- worse -- Gryffindor-themed robes, Potter yielded to robes the color of his green eyes but insisted on gold accents. Draco didn’t get a chance to see Potter in it until today and.

Wow.

Potter’s eyes seemed to glow, always a stunning green but rarely a feature he played up. The robes  _ fit _ , accenting his body in a way Draco had never seen before. Potter, wearing clothes which  _ fit _ and actually  _ promoting _ his features…

Mouth dry, Draco walked over and took a swig from the flask. He immediately choked.

“Gift from the twins,” Potter said, sounding grim. 

Draco steeled himself and took another drink. It was much smoother that time. He wondered belatedly if the drink was hexed, but not even the twins were insane enough to do something like that on Hermione Granger’s wedding day. Then another thought struck him. “The Weasel thinking of running?”

Potter side-eyed him and damn those pretty eyes. Draco looked away and took a third drink. Much smoother that time. “No. Just panicking. I’ve seen him calmer facing a forest full of giant spiders.”

Draco  _ didn’t want to know _ . He managed a fourth drink before Potter snatched the flask away. Those thrice-damned eyes glittered. “Scared, Malfoy?”

Draco’s mouth quirked without his permission. Maybe it started all the way back then, the pair of them facing the other, barely trained and ready to go. “You wish.”

Perhaps later? When they were supposed to duel to the death and neither could push themselves to go that far?

Potter smiled, like he knew what Draco was thinking, and shook his head. Draco doubted that he knew. Potter could sniff out the Dark Arts at twenty paces but there was no way -- “Not long now,” Potter said, face softening into something too warm for Draco’s taste. 

Draco swallowed and wished he had the flask again, even as the alcohol settled, liquid heat, in his belly. “Soon,” he agreed. Or thought he agreed. Potter’s odd smile made him wonder if they were having the same conversation at all.

He was thinking too much into it. Probably the alcohol. No matter the new robes, this was still  _ Potter _ .

Perhaps it started even farther back, when Draco introduced himself and stuck out his hand. He considered doing it now, just to see what would happen, but instead a ruckus called Potter back into his tent and Draco drifted back into Hermione’s. He tried not to think about the scars and calluses which would surely be on Potter’s hand now.

Perhaps further back than that, in the robe shop, in his too large clothes with his broken glasses, staring at Draco like he had never seen a wizard before. 

Similar to how he looked at Draco from his place behind Weasley as Hermione and the Weasel exchanged their vows. 

This was Hermione’s big day. He really didn’t care about Weasley, but Hermione befriended him when most of the Wizarding World still viewed him as a Death Eater. She trusted him enough to make him her Man of Honor, and he worked hard to make her wedding perfect. Now they were there and…

He could barely look away from Harry Potter’s face.

Potter, who looked like he was staring back.

Hermione choked out her vows, and Draco’s own eyes burned when Potter smiled at him. Potter was flushed but was the only dry-eyed one there, even Weasley swallowing hard with shiny eyes. Potter’s smile looked tight, gaze confused.

When Weasley said his vows, everything seemed shaky. Upon the completion of their vows, Potter and Draco provided the rings, and Weasley and Hermione exchanged them. The rings shone with magic, lighting everyone who stood close with gold. It shone warm on Potter’s skin, lit up his eyes.

Did Potter ever look at him and wonder? Did he think about their past together? Those moments Draco couldn’t forget?

Hermione and Weasley kissed and everyone cheered and Draco found himself clapping. Beside him, Hermione was crying and laughing and she looked  _ beautiful _ .

So did Potter. Draco was fucked.

Maybe  _ this _ moment was the end.

The reception was set up not far from the wedding, and everything blurred. Most of the people present had been directly involved with the battle against the Dark Lord, so after the toasts, Draco hurried to find a quiet spot. He would deny it but the Weasley matriarch terrified him. Even his parents were frightened of his aunt, and Molly Weasley destroyed her.

Somehow, he still preferred thinking about that than thinking about Potter’s green eyes.

Draco hid in the shadows of the tents, holding a bottle of firewhiskey and watching Hermione and Weasley dance. He had to admit that he and Potter did a good job. There were flower arrangements and flowers petals in the grass and spells set up to glow as soon as it grew dark. Flower petals tangled in Hermione’s clothes and in her hair, ensorceled into submission. There was plenty of space for others to dance, and he saw others gathering food (made by wizards and witches,  _ not _ house elves). Others were swaying, already sloshed, with the Weasley twins having too much fun earlier with their toasts.

Everything was fine. Everyone else could take care of the rest. Everything --

“Got enough to share, Malfoy?”

Draco almost spilled the firewhiskey.

Potter stepped out of the shadows, an awkward smile on his mouth. His hair somehow looked more out of control than earlier, curls in his face and flower petals pale in the dark strands. There was lipstick flickering pink and green on his cheek, and Draco recognized that from Lovegood earlier. On his other cheek was the bright red lipstick Hermione had been wearing. There was a stain on his right sleeve, which Draco automatically spelled away. Potter’s smile grew sheepish.

“Too much for you, Potter?” Draco asked, recovering. He held out the bottle and remembered Potter with his flask earlier. 

Potter shook his head and took the bottle. Their fingers brushed. Draco swallowed. “Actually,” Potter began, then cut himself off. He sipped from the bottle.

In the shadows, flower petals in his hair, Potter looked too much like that boy all those years ago and nothing like him. The boy who refused to shake his hand, only to shake his hand years later before all of the Wizarding World, standing up for him after years of suspecting him of every Dark deed. It was strange to think how much of Draco’s life since he was eleven centered around Potter. 

Draco felt sick and dizzy. He had drank too much, obviously. He --

“Actually, Malfoy, I was looking for you.” The words spilled out of Potter, but Draco recognized the sudden jut of Potter’s chin, the spark in his eyes. Draco wished he had the bottle back.

“Oh?” Draco managed.

Potter nodded firmly. His knuckles were white on the bottle. “To. You know. Dance.”

“Dance?” Draco echoed. He immediately felt like an idiot.

“Yeah. I mean…” Draco saw Potter’s Gryffindor courage falter. Potter glanced at Hermione and Weasley, still dancing. Their heads were close together. Whatever they said was purely between them. “I mean, if you  _ want _ \--”

Perhaps this moment was the end. Or the beginning. Draco didn’t know, and he no longer cared. He licked his lips and held out his hand. Potter started handing the bottle back. Draco ignored it. “Scared, Harry?”

Harry blinked. Draco decided that he would make sure that Harry wore a lot more green in the future. Harry’s smile lit up his face. “You wish, Draco.”

Harry’s hand was warm and perfectly callused in Draco’s. 

Perhaps Harry had no sense of color or style, and Draco quickly discovered that Harry was a  _ terrible _ dancer, but Harry had a good laugh and a sharp sense of humor and, well. Turned out he was a pretty good kisser, too. 

Draco could work on those small details. This was just the beginning, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fics and such, check me out on [tumblr](http://tirsynni.tumblr.com/)!


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